Spring graduation hits differently when you’re an athlete. It’s not just the end of a school year, it’s the end of a lifestyle, a rhythm, an identity. I remember walking off the field for the last time, not realizing how hard the silence would hit. No more practices, no more team meetings, no more jersey that tethered me to something bigger than myself. Just… stillness. And the looming question: Now what?
For many, this is the first time in your life the sport you’ve given everything to no longer has a defined next step. And with that comes a wave of emotion that isn’t always easy to name.
There’s pride because you made it.There’s relief that you crossed the finish line. And then, often underneath it all, there’s a quiet kind of grief.
You're not just letting go of a game. You're letting go of a way of life. The structure that kept you focused. The identity you’ve worn like armor. The teammates who became your family. The coaches who shaped how you saw yourself, for better or for worse.
And as much as people around you celebrate your future, inside, you might feel lost. I know I did.
The days that followed graduation seemed long and, at times, unbearable. I went from having a fully booked schedule, constantly surrounded by teammates, support staff, and a clear sense of purpose — to sitting in quiet rooms, wondering who I was without it all. Even after landing my first job out of college, the excitement never matched the thrill of game days or team travel. I tried to throw myself into work, stay disciplined with my training, and even took up running. But if I’m honest, so many of those days felt heavy with loneliness.
The large social circle that once came with being an athlete seemed to vanish overnight. Everyone moved away, chasing their own new beginnings, and I was left trying to find my place in a life without sports. As much as I tried new things, hoping to fill the void, I was always left with this ache. A quiet reminder that something meaningful was missing. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t know what I liked or where I fit. And then, I went back to the thing that called me in the first place: soccer.
I started coaching. And almost immediately, I saw it, the mental pressure these young athletes were under. They were carrying so much more than just expectations to perform. And yet, no one was teaching them how to manage it. No one was helping them build the tools to process it all. That’s when it clicked.
I could still be part of the game I loved, but in a different way. A more meaningful way. One that honored the part of me that had studied social work and wanted to help people through hard things. That realization is what led me here.
To mental performance coaching.
Not just to talk about confidence or mindset, but to stand with athletes through the transitions no one prepares you for. To remind you that your purpose didn’t retire with your jersey. It’s just getting started.
I often think about the girl I used to be — scared, unsure, and trying to piece together who I was without a roster or a stat line. If I could go back, I’d sit next to her in that fear. And I’d tell her:
“You don’t know this yet… but you’re going to be okay.
You don’t know this yet… but your identity runs so much deeper than what you do on the field.
You don’t know this yet… but one day, you’re going to help so many athletes walk through this same moment, and you’ll help change how they see themselves too.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but everything I lost in that moment was making room for something even more meaningful.
So I am here to tell you...you are more than just an athlete. You always have been.And now, you get to discover what that truly means.
If this speaks to you, whether you're an athlete navigating this moment, a coach trying to support them, or a parent watching from the sidelines, just know you’re not alone. I’ve been there. And I’d be honored to help you through it.
